“Art with a big A or a little a?” Selah asks.
“Both. Look at Maggie’s collection of paintings of the island. All amateur, all not very well done, but together they form a collective piece that becomes more than the sum of their parts,” Gil says.
Maggie blushes over how Gil seems to understand her little collection of misfit paintings.
“Did Maggie invite you upstairs to show you her etchings?” Quinn can’t stop teasing.
“Disappointingly, she didn’t. She was a complete lady on the house tour.”
“Disappointing indeed.” Quinn does, in fact, look disappointed.
Selah joins them at the table and refills her glass. “I’m well on my way to tipsy so I’ll forgive the ‘nudity and nakedness’ comment.”
“Oh come on, Elmore,” Quinn bats his eyelashes. “Think of all the young men you’ve lured into taking art history with the promise of boobs and bush.”
“Dr. Elmore, thank you. Boobs and bush—now that’s a course title. Much better than ‘The depiction of the female form from Renaissance to Impressionism’.”
Quinn fake yawns and Selah gives him the stink eye. Maggie knows provoking Quinn is entertaining and comfortable for Selah.
“I should invite you to give a guest lecture next time you’re in the area. You can expound on the cultural relevance of poop or history of plump children in art.”
Their opinions about art rarely agree, yet they both enjoy the verbal sparring. Quinn gives as good as he gets.
“Those pageant girls are living cherubim. Most of their proportions are classic Italian Renaissance.”
Gil and Maggie roll their eyes at Quinn.
“I will say anything’s better than ‘Gary Busey is my co-pilot’ sticker campaign you did right after college,” Maggie says.
“Dude, Busey was epic. Had to pay respect to the man.”
Selah hits her head on the table in exasperation while Gil chuckles.
“How many times did we watch Point Break? I used to have that movie memorized,” Gil says.
“Ben will know. Remember when he had us get the dead presidents masks and go as them for Halloween?” Quinn asks.
Gil laughs. “Man, I’d forgotten about that.”
“I wish I could forget about it.” Selah half grumbles, half laughs. “I got so sick of the three of you always quoting that movie.”
“Johnny Utah was the man. Never compromised, never worked for the man. He’s my hero.” Quinn raises his mostly empty glass. “To Johnny.”
“To Johnny.” They all toast with laughter.
Seven
Maggie starts the water for the dishes while Quinn and Selah sprawl out on the gray sectional sofa in the living room. Biscuit curls up by Quinn’s feet.
“Hey now, I’m supposed to be washing dishes. I didn’t contribute at all to dinner.” Gil walks around the kitchen island and joins her at the sink.
“You really don’t have to do the dishes, Gil. It’s fine.”
He takes the sponge from her hand, bumping her out of his way with his hip. “Move. I need to earn my keep.”
“Okay, you can help. It’s an old dishwasher—everything needs to be scraped and rinsed. You rinse and I’ll load.”
When Gil hands her the dishes their fingers brush together. Maggie decides his actions must be deliberate, but she can’t deny the little touches affect her.
“Remember when we didn’t even have a dishwasher in the house that summer? What a disaster.”
Maggie laughs. “Remember Quinn insisting on paper plates during his week on dish duty?”
“The chore wheel thing was a nightmare. Who came up with that?” Gil asks.
“Jo. Had to have been. She ruled the roost with an iron fist.”
“I think you’re mixing your metaphors.” He teases.
“I’m a little buzzed.” She admits and laughs. “Now I’m imagining a chicken with an animatronic human hand.”
This is easy. Like old times. They can do this. They’ll be fine.
“Yeah, I’d say you’re a little buzzed.” Gil joins her laughter.
“Whose idea was it to burn the chore wheel in the barbecue before we all moved out?” Gil asks.
“Quinn. I think he declared the fire performance art. Jo was pissed.” Maggie laughs at the memory of the charred chart.
“Right. He’s a clever bastard. He gets away with everything by calling it art.”
“Ahem, I can hear you two, you know,” Quinn says from the living room. “I’m right here.” He waves over his head and points down to himself.
“Q, don’t worry, we can never forget about you. You won’t let us,” Gil says.
“Damn straight. I’m the gay glue holding this group together,” Quinn boasts. “Selah is the heart, Maggie is the memory, and you are the brain, Pinky.”
“Talk about mixed metaphors,” Maggie whispers to Gil. He leans down to hear her. Their heads are close together, very close. Suddenly aware of where she is, and who she’s with, she pulls back and turns off the water.
“Thank you for your help,” she says to Gil rather formally.
“No problem. Happy to help.” He gives her a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Wandering over to the stereo by the dining table, he picks up a couple of albums sitting on the credenza.
“Feeling sentimental, Maggie?” He holds up the cover to Avalon for her to see.
“I was going through some of mom’s albums the other night and discovered that shelved next to Blue, one of her favorites.”
Maggie ignores the silly grin on Gil’s face that he’s trying to hide by facing the window, but she can see his reflection. Finding that album and his unexpected arrival are probably more than coincidence. She fights her own smile at the thought.
“I have dessert if anyone wants it—local gelato and cookies. Anyone?”
“Me,” Selah says from the sofa where she checks her phone.
“Can you even get service?” Maggie asks. “The island is notorious for dead spots.”
“If I sit here and face south, I can. I’ll tap into your wi-fi later if you don’t mind. I need to do a little writing this weekend.”
“Academic or smutty pirates?” Quinn asks.
“Academic pirates who give up everything for one good fuck.” Selah snarks.
“Really? Cause that sounds interesting. Based on anyone we know? Gil could be a pirate. Or at least he could’ve when he had long hair.” Quinn muses.
Maggie pauses scooping the gelato, and closes her eyes, thinking about Pirate Gil and his shoulder length, shaggy hair in college a la Dave Grohl.
Gil’s voice brings her back to the present.
“Every guy had long hair in college.” Gil sits down on the sofa next to Quinn. Maggie watches Biscuit nudging Gil’s hand with his head to be petted.
“Not Ben. Never Ben,” Maggie says.
“No, never Ben. Shame. How different his life might have been had he been a long hair.”
“Ben’s life is just as it should be and as intended,” Maggie says in an uptight voice. At times she’s been jealous of Ben and Jo’s seemingly perfect life.
While everyone grabs a bowl and a spoon, she sits in the available space in the corner between Gil and Selah.
“Ben’s life is just as Josephine intended,” Selah says. “They are the perfect American dream. Handsome, two-point-five children, golden retriever, big house, cars, and vacation home. If I didn’t love them, I would hate them.” Selah makes a face and eats a cookie.
“It’s your worst nightmare, Selah,” Gil says.
“Oh, I know.” She shudders. “Not my American dream. Some of us are breeders, some of us are not. Wouldn’t trade places for anything.”
“You know you’re not missing out. Didn’t you sleep with Ben freshman year?” Quinn asks.
“I did indeed. It was nice.” Selah shrugs.
“Nice?”
Gil asks.
“Nice is Selah’s way of saying boring,” Maggie adds.
“Nice is boring,” Selah says.
“Nice doesn’t have to be boring,” Gil defends.
“Oh sweetie, you are one of the nice guys. Never boring though.” To emphasize her words, Selah nods.
“I wasn’t fishing for compliments, but will take it.” Gil rubs the back of his neck.
Maggie senses his awkwardness. “Why do we always go for the bad boys when we are younger, never realizing they are called bad boys for a reason? We waste so much time.”
“Cause the bad ones make you appreciate the good guys when you finally open your eyes and see them,” Quinn says.
“I still like bad boys.” Selah surprises no one with this statement.
“And pirates,” Maggie mumbles with a mouthful of ice cream.
“Arrgh,” Quinn adds, and they all crack up.
Gil puts down his empty bowl and leans back into the sofa with his long legs extended and his feet resting on the edge of the ottoman. Maggie notices his shirt rides up slightly, revealing a thin slice of skin and a noticeable line of hair extending down from his navel.
Gil catches her staring, but doesn’t immediately pull down his shirt. He avoids looking at her directly, but out of the corner of her eye she thinks she sees him smirk.
“Something about fresh air makes me tired,” says Quinn.
“Probably the oxygen and lack of smog does you in whenever you leave the city.” Maggie teases him. There are times she misses life in the big city, but can’t imagine fighting the everyday battle of living there anymore.
“I could never live in New York. Too big, too many people,” Gil adds.
“I couldn’t go back, but I loved the city when I was there,” Maggie says. “But you can lose yourself.”
“Sometimes when you lose your way, you find yourself.”
“Wow, Q, that was deep.” Selah sounds surprised.
“I have my moments. I should probably go to bed on a high note.” Quinn stands and takes the tray of empty bowls over to the sink.
“We are old if Quinn is going to bed at eleven,” Gil says, craning to see the clock on the kitchen wall.
“I’m still on East Coast time. Not old.”
“Yes, Peter Pan, you’ll never grow old.” Gil laughs. “Quinn, the perpetual teenager.”
“I think I’ll go to bed as well.” Selah yawns and stretches. “Too much wine.”
“Then there were two,” Gil says, turning to lean closer to Maggie.
“Then there were two,” Maggie repeats, remembering how she and Gil always tended to be the night owls of the group, hitting their second wind at midnight, and studying or drinking into the wee hours.
“Are you tired? I can go up and read in my room. I don’t want to keep you up.”
“I usually stay up late. Some things don’t change. We can’t watch television because Selah is in the only room with a TV.”
“We could play cards or a game of old school Scrabble,” Gil suggests, gesturing at the basket of games and cards tucked next to the bookcase in the corner.
“Deal.” Maggie gets up to grab the Scrabble board. “Do you want to play at the dining table or sit on the floor here?”
“Dining table if you don’t mind. You set up the board while I put the bowls in the dishwasher.”
“Do you want another glass of wine?” He grabs the bottle and waves it at her.
“Are you having another beer? I don’t want to be the lush.”
“I’ll have another one if you do.”
“Sure.”
He fills her glass.
She has the board and bag of tiles out and ready when he settles in the chair at the head of the table. If she stretches out her feet, she’ll be touching his legs, so she keeps her legs tucked under her chair.
He pulls out a “B” tile from the bag before she reaches in and takes out a “M”.
She sets up all her tiles and looks at her selection of letters: U, R, C, N, T, S, P. If they were playing dirty Scrabble, she’d have the perfect word.
As if reading her mind, Gil plays “LICKS”.
Tempted but not sure she should go there, she plays “PUNTS.”
She grabs five more tiles from the bag.
While he studies his tiles for a few minutes, she notes he’s the same player he was in college— slow and methodical.
He plays “LEASE” off of the “L” in “LICKS,” and then adds up his points on the pad of paper and sips his beer. A comfortable quiet settles over the table.
She drinks her wine and studies her new tiles before deciding to play “GLOVE” off of the last “E” in “LEASE.” Looking up writing down her score, she notices Gil looks sleepy.
“Hey sleepy, you forgot to take tiles out of the bag.” Maggie nudges him with her foot.
“Sorry. I think I hit the wall…” His words trail off into a yawn, his deep voice more rough with sleep.
“We can call it a night.” Maggie hides her disappointment. She’s been enjoying Gil’s quiet company.
“Do you mind? Let’s tip our tiles down and continue this tomorrow.”
“That sounds like a good idea since we don’t need the table for meals. I’ll have to kick your butt later.”
When Gil stands up and stretches, she stares at a sliver of exposed skin again. Shaking her head, she can’t believe she is ogling Gil’s stomach.
“Like you ever kicked my butt at Scrabble.” He tugs down his shirt.
“Once I did before I grew to hate playing with you. You never let me win.”
“You wouldn’t have liked it if I ‘let’ you win and you know it.”
“This is true,” she says, busying herself with turning off lights around downstairs.
“You should be all set. Extra towels in the linen closet in your room and toothbrushes etc in the vanity in the bathroom.”
“Thanks,” he tells her as they head upstairs. “Good night, Maggie May. It’s great seeing you again.”
“Same.” She means it.
After getting ready for bed, she stands at her bedroom window, looking out at the dark water lapping the beach. She picks up a wishing rock from the many scattered along the windowsill and sets it on her nightstand before slipping into bed.
Eight
Maggie opens her eyes to the rude light of another cloudless, deep blue sky. The bluff appears close enough to touch out the windows. Stretching, she bargains with herself to skip her morning run. Maybe she can use a house full of guests as an excuse to avoid her daily three miles. Biscuit stretches out beside her and presents his belly for a rub.
Hearing a knock at her door and before she says come in, Quinn walks in with a cup of coffee in both hands. Maggie sits up, relieved and vaguely sad it’s him.
“Morning, starshine. Good morning, Mr. McGhee.” Quinn dutifully scratches Biscuit’s belly.
“Morning yourself,” Maggie mumbles while reaching for the oversize mug of steaming coffee.
Quinn hands her the cup and sits against the headboard.
“So. What’s on the agenda for today, Magpie? You better say baking a batch of those amazing scones of yours is the first thing you plan on doing. I’m giving up the giving up of carbs for some of your baked goodies this weekend.”
“Scones do sound good. I have a pint of marionberries in the fridge. Will those work?”
“Perfection,” says a male voice that’s not Quinn’s.
Gil stands in the doorway looking sleep rumpled in a pair of cargo shorts and an Evergreen State T-shirt. He walks over to the bed and sits on the edge. She’s self-conscious about her spaghetti-strap, cotton nightgown. Quinn seeing her like this is no big deal. Somehow having Gil in her bedroom, sitting on her bed, while she is barely clothed feels entirely different.
“What is perfection?” she finally asks.
“Marionberry scones for breakfast,” Gil answers
“If I make scones, I’m definitely going to need to go for a run.”
Quinn pinches her bare arm. “Yep, you’re a big squishy ball of fat. You should probably skip the scones and give your share to me.”
Maggie brushes off Quinn’s pinching fingers. “Be nice, Mr. Eight-Percent Body Fat.”
“You run?” Gil asks from the foot of the bed. “Since when?”
“For a few years now. Needed something to beat back the clock. So I started running and practicing yoga. Biscuit and I were both starting to get paunches.”
“I don’t see any evidence of a paunch or wrinkles.” Gil smiles at her. “I still run. What’s your typical run?”
“Three miles, sometimes four. If I want to torture myself, I run on the tideland during the low tide, but usually I keep to the roads.”
“I brought my running shoes. We should go for a run together,” Gil suggests.
The idea of sweating and panting next to Gil gives Maggie pause.
“Okay, before you two start talking 5Ks and 13Ks and who has a 26.4 sticker on their car, let’s get back to the scones,” Quinn interrupts.
“Always about the food, Q. Marathons are 26.2 miles and 13Ks are not a thing, you know,” Maggie says.
“Whatever. Now chop chop!” Quinn attempts to push her out of bed.
“All right, all right. I’m getting up. Run first, then scones. Can a girl have some privacy for a minute?”
“Magpie, it’s nothing we haven’t seen before. Hello? Topless sunbathing phase.”
Maggie blushes at the memory of their tar beach summer before junior year.
“I miss those twenty-year-old boobs.”
She swears she hears Gil whisper “me too” as he walks out the door. That’s strange, she thinks. All twenty-year-old boobs or my boobs specifically?
* * *
By the time Maggie gets outside, she finds Gil stretching on the front steps, wearing running shorts and the same gray Evergreen T-shirt. His long legs are toned and tan. He looks good. Really good.
Maggie wears her typical black capri leggings and a purple running tank, her hair pulled into a high pony tail. She’s forgone her iPod and earbuds in case Gil wants to talk.
Geoducks are for Lovers Page 5